“Of course,” I add with a slight grin, “if you’d rather flex yourcharity muscles with cold hard cash, there’s a silent auction waiting behind those doors. And I’ve been informed that my mother is already prepared to commit felony assault over a diamond tennis bracelet.”
Laughter rolls across the room, rich and relieved. Violette raises her glass in mock threat. Lars shakes his head.
I give them a beat, then press forward.
“The auction is now open,” I announce, straightening. “Spend freely. Celebrate boldly. And thank you—for standing with us, and for what comes next.”
I step back from the podium as applause breaks out, measured but sincere. A polite cover for the unease creeping in behind it.
The quartet resumes in the corner, soft strings filling the room like fog rolling over water.
I descend the stairs, one hand brushing the rail, eyes finding Zara’s again. I can see the storm forming in her eyes.
Lars joins me at the bottom of the platform. “Sounded almost sincere,” he mutters under his breath.
“It was.” I smile. “Every word.”
Zara rises when I return to the table, and I reach for her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“You were brilliant, Mr. Marchetti,” she says softly, eyes warm with something deeper than amusement.
“I’m just trying to impress my wife,” I reply, lips brushing her skin again. “The rest of this city can rot for all I care.”
I slip back into my seat beside her, eyes scanning the room again, but my focus narrows to the one thing that matters most. Her.
Enzo returnsto the table and slides into the seat beside me, his presence solid and grounding. But my pulse is still uneven, the lingering aftermath of what happened the moment Lachlan Kavanagh stepped into the ballroom.
The entire night has felt like navigating a minefield, but that moment was the detonation.
He strolled in with a sickening confidence. Like the past two months hadn’t changed a damn thing. His suit was cut to perfection, every stride dripping with entitlement. And the smile—the one he wore like armor—was the same polished smirk that used to haunt me. Back then, it was a symbol of control. Of ownership. Of fear.
It used to make me feel small.
Now it just makes me want to rip his world apart with my bare hands.
So I sat taller. Straightened my spine. Lifted my chin and locked my shoulders into place. If he was going to see me tonight, he was going to see all of me—unapologetic, unshaken, and ready to strike.
I let my eyes sweep the room, pretending not to notice the moment he was escorted to his table. But of course, his gaze found ours. Found me. And when it did, that smirk sharpened. Cool. Composed. Calculated.
A predator in a suit.
Once upon a time, that expression would’ve frozen me. Would’ve sent me spiraling inward, hiding behind a careful mask of compliance.
But not tonight. Tonight, that smirk only fuels the fire burning violently in my chest.
Dinner is served shortly after Enzo’s speech, and I do my best to keep pace with the conversation at our table—banter between Lars and Violette, a few updates from security passed to Enzo—but my stomach has other ideas.
It’s subtle at first. A small twist beneath my ribs, like I just need a deep breath. I pick at my food, trying to focus. The scent of the duck confit makes my throat close, and suddenly the champagne on the table feels like a cruel joke.
Shit.
I push my chair back quietly. “Excuse me for a moment,” I say, laying my napkin down.
Enzo glances up immediately. His hand touches my back. “You alright?”
“Just headed to the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.”
He doesn't argue, but he turns to his mother before I even reach the end of the table. “Ma, go with her.”
